LUMP

by Claire L. Fishback

  The Grudge.

  “Not The Grudge,” she whispered, then took another gulp. Then another. “It was about me. The movie was about me. Sara the Slaughterer.” That wasn’t even the girl’s name in the movie, but it was something like that. “I killed him, then I killed myself.” She sat up. “But . . . I’m still alive.”

  She went into the bathroom where she’d seen bloody Jordan the first time.

  “You’re supposed to be dead,” she told her red-eyed reflection. The front door creaked open. A whining hinge Jordan was supposed to oil when he was still alive. Sara’s heart started to pound. She listened as someone stepped into the foyer and dropped something heavy on the floor. She slinked into the kitchen and took a knife from the block. On tiptoe, she made her way down the hall to the entryway.

  Jordan was busy taking off his coat and scarf. He looked up the stairs as if expecting her to come down to greet him.

  “You’re dead,” Sara said from the hallway shadows.

  Jordan’s eyes flicked to her, and he took a step back. His eyebrows lowered in confusion.

  “You’re dead. I killed you, but I don’t remember when, but I did it. You’re dead,” Sara said in a low voice.

  “What? Is this a joke?” He laughed uncertainly. “That’s what the woman in the movie said . . .” his eyes lowered to her hand, to the knife. “Knock it off, will you? You’re totally freaking me out.”

  Sara took a step toward him.

  “Jesus. What’s that smell?” He took a step toward her. “Is that you?”

  Sara still wore the sweaty pajamas—tank top and shorts—she’d worn all week, or month, or year.

  “You’re dead,” she said again. “I’ll prove it!” She lunged at him, grabbed a fistful of his hair and slit his throat. The blade ground against his trachea.

  Jordan gasped, mouth opening and closing like it had in the mirror when she saw him like this.

  “See?” She said.

  You’re supposed to be dead, too.

  Sara dropped the blade. It thunked onto the hard wood. She shuffled into the kitchen and picked up the yellow-corded phone.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” A woman asked.

  “There’s been a murder . . .” Sara said, her voice wavering. She gulped, took a deep breath, let out a sob, and said, “And a suicide.”

  Medicine Memory

  Published in Predicate Literary Journal

  IT WAS LIKE SLUDGE. How could anyone drink coffee like that? I drank it anyway, needed to wake up. I was on medication for my condition, which always made me drowsy. It affected my memory, too. I could never remember when or even if I took my medicine for the day, and if I took more than one, it could be very dangerous. But if I didn’t take it, it would be worse. I don’t even remember why I must take it. My mother was the only person who knew, and she passed away suddenly of a heart attack three years ago.

  “Marilyn?” I called. My secretary bustled in. She was wearing a light purple dress-suit that was stunning. She was gorgeous. I stared at her in awe.

  “What is it, Roll?” she asked. I loved it when she called me Roll. My full name was Rolland Jeffrey Franks III, and she was supposed to address me as Mr. Franks, but I allowed her to call me Roll. Looking like that, she could call me ‘Shit Head’ for all I cared.

  “Have I taken my medication this morning?”

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I don’t think I did,” I said, leaning back in my large, cushy chair. It rocked slightly.

  “Tell me exactly what you did this morning since the moment you woke up,”

  “I got out of bed, took a shower, got out of the shower, shaved, put on deodorant, got dressed, ate breakfast, and,” I smiled at her, “took my pill! Thanks, Mare,” I said. She smiled, then handed me a folder of papers I needed to sign. As the president of my corporation, I had a whole lot of paperwork, as well as a bunch of people that ran the place for me.

  My corporation, which was passed on to me after my father passed away and my older brother declined the inheritance, he wanted nothing to do with our family, involved about eighty workers who sat at desks and talked to people all day. Some helped set up folks with the paperwork for buying a house, or for buying land to build a house on. My corporation dealt with houses and everything about them. From selling, to renting, to buying, to building, to renovating, to destroying. My grandfather, Rolland Jeffrey Franks I, had founded the corporation and named it Franks Housing Corporation. Our motto was “Everything Houses.” I thought it was lame and changed it to “Houses R Us.” That was after my father, Rolland Jeffrey Franks II, changed it to “Everything About Homes and More.” I’m sure when I have a son and give him the corporation, it will change to something else.

  WHEN I GOT HOME THAT evening, I looked at the orange pill case sitting on the kitchen counter. Had I taken my medicine? I didn’t remember. I reached for the pills, struggled with the childproof cap, and finally shook a small triangular tablet into the palm of my hand. I poured a glass of water and was about to toss the pill to the back of my throat, when Marilyn’s voice filled my head.

  Tell me exactly what you did this morning from the moment you woke up.

  “I did take it,” I said aloud. “I did take it. Close call Rolland.” I ran a clammy hand through my hair and put the pills on top of the refrigerator, then heaved the door open and brought out sandwich fixings.

  The medicine I take has a whole lot of side effects, like migraine headaches, abdominal pains, indigestion, hair loss, weight gain, things like that. I have some of the more severe ones, which include stomach ulcers, heart problems and memory loss. I forget the most trivial things, for instance, putting the coffee grounds in the coffee maker. I end up with hot water on those days, so I just drink tea. I’ve also forgotten to put ham in a ham sandwich before. When it didn’t taste right, I realized what I had forgotten. One thing I’ll never forget, though, are my feelings for Marilyn.

  Marilyn had been working for me since I inherited the company. She stuck with me through thick and thin, as a faithful secretary, and had always helped me out with difficult situations, especially with my memory loss. She was so understanding, so patient with me. I truly loved her. But she was genuinely professional, and why would she be interested in me anyway? She seemed to like work much more than play, and I don’t think she’s ever had a serious relationship before.

  I grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge and went into the living room with my sandwich. I sat in my recliner and clicked on the television. The news was on, but nothing interested me, so I flipped to the game show channel and watched old reruns of Let’s Make A Deal. A guy won three pot-bellied stoves, but only two showed behind the curtain. He asked, where’s the third potbelly? And a large man came out and rubbed his round gut. I laughed, the bite of sandwich threatening to fall from my mouth. I continued watching, and before long dozed off.

  When I woke up, there was an empty beer bottle in my hand, and a plate littered with crumbs on the end table next to me. I sat up straight and gasped.

  “Where am I?” I whispered. “What’s going on, whose is this?” I looked at the bottle in my hand. I don’t drink beer, I thought to myself. I looked at my hands, they seemed foreign. I ran to the mirror and almost screamed as I stared at the vision in the reflection, the dark disheveled hair, the almost black eyes that seemed to go on forever.

  My heart began to pound as my gaze shifted to the lips, twisted in a cruel expression of horror. “Who am I? Who am I?” I yelled. “Where am I?” I looked around the house I was in, dazed and in a state of panic. “Whose house is this?”

  The room started to spin around me, my head swam with disturbing thoughts, pictures of blood-splattered walls, stained carpets, swollen, purple tongues, and wide staring eyes that would never see anything ever again. As I felt my body hit the floor, my vision blurred, and then went completely dark.

  “Rolland,” a sweet voice said. I was shaken slightly. “Rolland, wake up,�
�� this was my first experience with death. I wasn’t sure how things worked, but I thought that maybe when a person goes to heaven, their guardian angel shows them around. I opened my eyes. My guardian angel was beautiful with red hair, and a gentle touch.

  When my vision cleared, and I saw my angel more clearly, I smiled, then frowned.

  “Marilyn? You died, too?” I asked. “I’m sorry I crashed into a tree,” I mumbled. My mouth seemed foreign; my tongue felt out of place. I guess I had to get used to my new form as a ghost or spirit or whatever I was. My head was throbbing. “I wonder if everyone feels this way when they get up here.” I sat up, too fast, and my vision blurred. I grabbed my head as it throbbed more intensely. “Do you feel funny?” I asked. I had a feeling in my stomach, the feeling you get when you think of something exciting, like going to Disneyland for the first time. A surge of anxiety, like being tickled deep down, I almost had to laugh, it felt so weird, but my head ached.

  “No, Roll, we’re not dead,” Marilyn said. She stroked my hair; I felt like a cat and even wanted to purr. “Something happened to you, what happened, Roll?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, shamefully hanging my head and rubbing my eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “I only remember leaving work and coming home. I guess maybe I fell asleep and had a bad dream that you woke me up from,” I looked around. “Why am I in the bathroom?”

  “This is where I found you,” she said, “Did you take two pills yesterday?” She didn’t give me time to answer, or even think. “Did you forget and take two?”

  “I don’t remember,” I said. “I, I don’t know,”

  “Think, Rolland, think, did you take two?” She shook my shoulder, making my head wobble, making me cringe with pain.

  “Did I hit my head?” I asked her, reaching back to feel it. She grabbed my arm before I could touch my head.

  “Yes, you hit your head, it’s bleeding, but I put a bandage over it.” she checked the dressing. “Tell me what happened. Start from as far back as you remember yesterday, even if you start from when you woke up that morning.” She was deeply concerned about this. I personally didn’t really care, as long as I got my medicine before too long.

  “How did you get in here?” I asked. “I usually lock the doors before I go to bed.” Then I thought again. “How did you know to come here?”

  “It’s two in the afternoon, Rolland. You hadn’t shown up for work yet. I was worried.” She looked me in the eye. The front of her blouse was low-cut, and I could see in just a little. She was wearing her red suit today, I loved that one, she looked great in red. “And as for the doors? You probably forgot to lock them.” She looked at me with soulful eyes. “Now, what happened? Reach way back and tell me what you did yesterday,”

  “I remember leaving work and coming home, but everything after that is a blur,” I said, frowning. “I need to take my medicine,” I said, starting to rise.

  “No, not yet. We need to figure this out.” She put a hand on my arm. “Maybe if you see the main rooms in the house you might remember what happened,” she said. She helped me to my feet and guided me around the house. Nothing sparked even the minutest thought. When we reached the living room, I sat down in the recliner and looked to my right, right at the dirty plate. I gasped. “What?” Marilyn rushed to my side.

  “I came home last night and made myself a sandwich, then sat here with my plate and a beer, and I fell asleep watching television. Was the TV on when you got here?” I didn’t give her time to answer, it was as if my mouth had taken over and was spewing out anything that came to mind. “I woke up and was . . .” I trailed off, not sure what was next, but knowing it was on the tip of my brain, ready to come out.

  “What happened when you woke up?” Marilyn was crouching next to the recliner to get at my level.

  “I-I was horrified,” I said in a slow, low tone. “Strange feelings, thoughts, urges.” I looked at my hands, which were mine again. “I didn’t know who I was, where I was, or even if I was,” I said. A tear dripped from my eye and trailed down my cheek as I remembered the incident. “I ran around, trying to figure out where I was.” I paused, and Marilyn squeezed my arm, telling me to go on. “When I saw my reflection, it wasn’t me,” I said. I looked at her for the first time since I sat down. Her gaze was questioning. “I looked, strange, angry,” I paused, thinking about what happened next. That was when I began to shake uncontrollably. I remembered the visions and pictures that flashed through my mind when I reached the bathroom. “I ran upstairs to the bathroom, in a frenzied panic. When I got there, I had these visions flash through my mind.” I shook harder, trembled all over. The trembling became worse as I told her about the visions. I looked at her when I finished. Her face was distorted in a half-grimace, half-surprised expression.

  “What do you think it means?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but I do know I didn’t take another pill. I almost did, but your voice entered my thoughts and I remembered that I had taken it already.” I smiled; my shaking had ceased, and Marilyn smiled at me, a smile that made everything seem so much better. But my smile faded.

  “Marilyn?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know the reason why I take this medicine?”

  “Why? Don’t you?”

  “I don’t know why I take it. The only person I know that knows was my mother, but she passed away three years ago,” I said. “Bless her soul,”

  “Well, speaking of your medicine, don’t you need to take it?”

  “Don’t change the subject!” I said through gritted teeth, grabbing her chin and jerking her face toward mine.

  “Rolland! I wasn’t changing the subject! I was merely telling you that you need to take your pill!” She was frightened, and I knew then that she did know why I took my medicine. And that was why she was afraid of me.

  I pushed her face away and she stood from her crouching position. “Get out,” I said. “Go, get out.”

  “You need to take your medicine.”

  “Just go,” I said, holding my hand up to silence her.

  “Fine, but you’ll see. You just remember to take that medicine, or you’ll regret ever telling me to get out.” She straightened her clothing and went to the door. “I don’t understand, Rolland. You’ve always been so nice.” She was crying, I heard it in her voice, although she tried to hide it. “I almost loved you,” it was a whisper, and the door closed softly after that. I knew she was gone, maybe forever.

  “I’ll take my medicine, dammit.” I said. I got up and went to the kitchen. After the short walk across the living room and into the kitchen, I had forgotten why I had entered. I looked around, trying to remember. I noticed the orange bottle of medicine, and a knife rack with assorted knives, the dripping faucet, and crumbs on the counter, which I must have forgotten to wipe up.

  Reaching for a rag, my sleeve caught on one of the knives. “How intriguing,” I said aloud. I pulled on the largest handle.

  A long, sharp blade hissed, as it was unsheathed from its slice in the wood. I turned it over in my hand, catching my reflection in the shining metal. It was a horrid face, horrid, yet appealing. My black eyes flashed, and my hair, dark and tousled reminded me of a lion’s mane. I smiled grotesquely, then went to the front door. I held the knife tight against my leg, then opened the door. Marilyn was sitting on the front steps, sobbing. She jumped when she heard my voice.

  “Dear, sweet Marilyn. How could I be so mean to such a beauty?” She looked suspiciously at me, a sidelong glance.

  “What’s on your mind?” she asked, the hint of suspicion tweaked something inside my head.

  “Will you please come in and talk to me?”

  “Did you take your medicine?”

  I had forgotten, and I didn’t want to lie, but I couldn’t help myself. I nodded yes, a crude nod where my head seemed to wobble on my neck.

  “Okay, I’ll come in,” she said, rising to her feet. “But you stay away from me until I know you’re alright.” I s
tepped aside to let her pass by me. Heaven forbid she should see my bright, shiny knife!

  “Sit, you can have my recliner, I’ll sit on the couch,” I said. I slipped the knife between the cushions of the couch as she sat down and plastered a smile on my face. “I’m sorry,” I said through my teeth. I hadn’t meant to say it that way, but something else was controlling my actions, and I liked it.

  “What’s wrong, Rolland?” she asked. I realized that my smile must not have been a smile. Without thinking, I pulled the knife from the cushion to look at my reflection and heard Marilyn gasp. “What are you doing with that?” She jumped to her feet. But I knew she wasn’t going to leave. The look I had on my face was one of despair, so I took my time training my face to smile.

  “What do you mean? It’s my mirror. I have a right to look at myself in the mirror!” My face felt funny, so I looked at my reflection in knife again and laughed, a laugh that came in spurts, loud and not so funny. But the sound of it made me laugh even more. The look on my face was hideous, but I loved it. Marilyn stumbled backward, heading for the door. “Stop,” I said. I tried to relax my face, but it was impossible. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I said, but started laughing again.

  “What are you doing with that knife?” she stammered.

  “Admiring my urbane appearance. If I were you, I wouldn’t leave,” I said, still looking in the mirror.

  “You didn’t take your medicine, did you? You lied to me, and now look at you.” She gestured toward me.

  “What?” I said, looking up at her. “I’m fine, just sit down, and we’ll talk,” I put the knife down next to me. I had tired of looking at my reflection in it. Marilyn started talking to me, but my attentions were elsewhere. Visions had started to flash in my mind again. There were only three, this time, and they seemed in some sort of chronological order. There was a grisly wound with blood spurting out. Then a bloody knife, and finally . . . my vision was interrupted by Marilyn’s annoyingly persistent questioning.